


what pleases you

by Shinybug



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22377010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: They stand silently for a long moment, staring at one another in the hazy blue-dark of twilight. Finally Jaskier gestures at the fire. “Have a seat then, and we can share the fire like strangers. Perhaps I’ll even sing you a ballad after dinner.” His voice comes out bitter and sharply edged.Coda to episode 6, Rare Species
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 53
Kudos: 1437
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	what pleases you

Geralt catches him on the road three days later, at dusk. Jaskier is tending a new fire, blowing on the embers when Geralt appears at the edge of the light, his face glowing golden in Jaskier’s peripheral vision. Nearby a stream rushes gently, and trees make a sparse shelter overhead. Jaskier listens dumbly to the sound of the water and the crackle of the flames, waiting for Geralt to say something. He doesn’t.

“This is most unfair of you,” Jaskier says, not looking up from the fire. He adds another small branch. “I’ve just made camp. Either you or I will have to move on, and I am too tired to be the one to leave my own fire. I’ll have to ask you to go.”

A nightbird calls into the silence between them.

“I don’t want you to go,” Geralt finally says, “and I’d just as soon stay, if you’ll let me.”

Jaskier straightens up and gets to his feet. There is a lead weight of dread between his shoulder blades.

“I did what you asked, at great cost to me. I’ve never known you to go back on your word.”

Geralt winces and grunts. “This is one time I’d rather make an exception.”

Jaskier cocks his head and his right hand twitches, curling in a loose, nervous fist. “You hurt me.”

“I know.”

They stand silently for a long moment, staring at one another in the hazy blue-dark of twilight. Finally Jaskier gestures at the fire. “Have a seat then, and we can share the fire like strangers. Perhaps I’ll even sing you a ballad after dinner.” His voice comes out bitter and sharply edged. 

So they sit together, sharing a loaf of bread and hard cheese, just far enough away from each other that they have to stretch fingers to reach. Jaskier feels Geralt watching him, while he pointedly stares at anything but Geralt. The bread sits like a rock in his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt tries, freezing Jaskier in place as he makes to stand up. “I wasn’t angry at you, I was angry at her.”

“And yet I’m the one you sent away, not her.” Jaskier leaves the circle of firelight to retrieve his bedroll, aware of golden eyes following him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, his voice surprising in its roughness, its deep timbre. “Come here. Please.”

Jaskier drops his bedroll and comes forward, reluctance dragging his every step. Geralt stands and meets his gaze, and his eyes shine unnaturally bright even in the dark. Jaskier shifts from one foot to the other, balancing his weight on his back foot, but doesn’t lean away.

“Don’t be cruel,” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt touches his shoulder, his cheek. He slowly drops his forehead against Jaskier’s, holding him in place without using force. “Forgive me,” he entreats, taking a deep breath. “I’m a brute. I don’t know why you put up with me.”

Jaskier snorts sharply, but he brings his hand up to rest tentatively on Geralt’s forearm. “I don’t know why I do, either. Certainly not for your sunny disposition, or your gentle treatment of your friends.”

“I don’t have many friends, but--”

“You don’t have any friends,” Jaskier interjects, his fingers curling and gripping.

“I had you,” Geralt finishes.

Jaskier nods. “You did.”

“Do I still?”

“Do you--” Jaskier echoes, huffing a laugh. He pulls back, and then unable to find the strength to move away he leans forward again, resting his forehead on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt tightens his grip on the nape of Jaskier’s neck. “You shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I left you, and that should be the end of it. You made your feelings clear on the mountain. I’m your personal jinx. Why should you feel differently now, all of a sudden? I’d wager it’s because she left you too, and I’m just easier to track.”

Jaskier steps away, breaking Geralt’s hold on him, and cold air presses into the space where Geralt had been. He takes a deep breath and walks away, untying and tossing out his bedroll beside the fire.

“This isn’t about Yennefer,” Geralt grits out. “What I feel for her is--”

“Are you going to say ‘complicated?’ ‘Intense?’ ‘Devastating?’ Spare me the details, Geralt.”

“Fuck, Jaskier, stop twisting my words.” Geralt strides over and grabs Jaskier’s arm. “She’s beautiful and she’s toxic, and I can’t break free from her. I don’t know what’s real and what’s djinn magic, and we’re better off apart.”

“I said spare me,” Jaskier whispers, looking away.

“But what I feel for you is easy. It’s simple and honest.” Geralt reels Jaskier in and rests his mouth against Jaskier’s temple. “You’re the truest friend I’ve ever known.”

Jaskier shudders, swaying into Geralt, slowly shaking his head. His hair catches on Geralt’s stubble and clings like spider silk. “I think we’re complicated too, or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all, witcher.”

Jaskier feels Geralt’s warm breath on his cheek, feels lips dragging against his chin. “I don’t think there’s anything complicated about this. It’s the clearest truth I know.”

Jaskier groans and seals his mouth on Geralt’s. The witcher’s tongue is slick and hot, approaching and retreating, asking permission. Jaskier opens his mouth, eagerly drawing him in and clutching at Geralt probably tighter than he should. Geralt hisses in a breath and deepens the kiss, and Jaskier digs his fingers in a little harder, seeking the knots of scars to hold onto.

“Fuck,” Geralt says, a softened curse shaped against Jaskier’s cheek, his breath scorching hot on Jaskier’s neck, teeth testing and scraping. “You taste like salt and flowers.”

“If you leave a mark, you can’t take it back,” Jaskier warns, throwing his head back and waiting, an unmistakable invitation. Geralt’s teeth are so gentle, his suction so light, that Jaskier can’t tell if there will be a mark there in the morning or not, and a cool, brittle feeling washes through his stomach. Still, he presses closer, his hands moving down hard muscle to clutch at Geralt’s hips.

Geralt pushes him away suddenly, a purposeful shove that Jaskier can’t immediately interpret, until Geralt does it again and Jaskier finds himself backing up toward his bedroll. Instead of lowering himself onto it he drops to his knees in front of Geralt in the dry grass, his heart like a hummingbird as he unlaces Geralt’s breeches with unsteady fingers.

“Oh, the ballads I could sing for you,” he murmurs, anticipating the stretch of his jaw as he draws out the cock in front of him, thick and leaking. His mouth waters as he takes it in, and the breath punches out of Geralt like a heavy blow. His hand falls on Jaskier’s head, gentler than Jaskier would have expected or needed.

The rhythm is easy, the stretch is not. Geralt is bigger than Jaskier has ever taken before, proportional to his body’s bulk, and Jaskier can’t help the hum and moan that escape as his jaw aches so sharply that he feels the burn through his whole body, tightening like a strung wire.

Geralt says a word that might be Jaskier’s name, and might be a plea for more. Jaskier is too consumed by the taste of Geralt, bitter and brilliant slipping across his tongue, to pay any mind. He looks up and meets Geralt’s gold-bright eyes, and there is something almost vulnerable there, something breaking apart, hidden behind the flat reflective surface. Witchers can’t feel, so people say, but Jaskier is looking at the proof of that untruth.

When Geralt pulls him roughly away, his chest heaving with quickened breath, Jaskier falls backward onto his bedroll, and Geralt follows him down. Geralt’s cock paints Jaskier’s tunic with slick lines when Jaskier lifts his hips into the thrust.

“How do you want me?” Jaskier asks, reaching up to test the pulse in Geralt’s throat, wondering if his steady, slow heart can beat faster. It can.

“Better to ask how I don’t,” Geralt admits, bracing himself up on a forearm and nosing against Jaskier’s neck, inhaling deeply. Jaskier wonders what he can detect with his witcher senses, if Jaskier’s arousal is something tangible to him. “I’d rather have you do what pleases you.”

Jaskier’s throat aches at hearing his own words passed back to him. _‘I’m just trying to work out what pleases me.’_

“I need you wearing less clothes,” he replies shakily, breathlessly. He tugs until laces loosen, buckles slide open, and slowly Geralt is stripped bare. His clothes and armor collect in a pile beside them, a dark shape of Geralt’s persona. Geralt leans over Jaskier hot-skinned and hard, his hair falling in a rough white curtain between Jaskier and the fire.

It is easier for Jaskier to shrug out of his tunic and breeches, just the work of a moment, then they are bare together. Hot skin against cool, meeting in the middle.

“I want you to fuck me,” Jaskier says, and his voice trembles no matter how brave he tries to be about it.

Geralt kisses him and it’s like a stone wall blocking a garden. “No. Not here.”

Jaskier swallows painfully, not understanding but acquiescing nevertheless. He reaches down to wrap his hand around Geralt’s thick cock, sliding his thumb across the slick head. Geralt shudders and bites at Jaskier’s collarbone, his slim chest, his nipple.

When they finally find a rhythm, hips slotted together like seamlessly fitting armor, Jaskier feels that even if this is the only opportunity he has with Geralt it would be worth it just for this, this moment of simple perfection, of gasping breaths and slipping tongues, of rocking like waves. Jaskier holds onto knotted scars with his fingertips, mapping them across Geralt’s chest.

Geralt comes with a powerful throbbing against Jaskier’s own cock, shooting hot and slick across his stomach, tugging him over the edge afterwards. Geralt’s weight is welcome as much as it is oppressive, slowly pressing the breath out of him, and he tightens his arms to keep him there.

After a moment, too short, Geralt sighs and levers himself up and away, leaving cold air swirling in his wake. Jaskier lays there, staring up at stars and smoke and rising embers.

Geralt returns with a blanket and a scrap of cloth and cleans them both, casting the cloth into the fire afterwards. He stretches himself out beside Jaskier so that he is a solid wall on one side with the fire on the other, and draws the rough wool blanket over the two of them. Jaskier shivers and turns his face into Geralt’s throat, breathing deeply of salt-sweat and horse and something else that smells heavy like soil after rain.

“Geralt?” He presses his mouth to Geralt’s pulse, feeling the beat of it slow down again.

“Hm.” It’s a deep, reverberating sound that Jaskier feels in his lips.

“Is this why you followed me? For this?”

Geralt is quiet for a long moment. “This is _also_ why I followed you.”

“But--”

“Sleep,” he says, his voice firm, and Jaskier obeys.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jaskier opens his eyes to a heavy dark sky with no moon peeking through the trees, and the fire burning quietly and low. He can feel Geralt behind him, can feel the hardness of Geralt’s cock resting against the small of his back, a burning brand.

“You’re awake,” Geralt rumbles in his ear, warmth in his voice.

“I am,” Jaskier agrees, shifting backward, arching back like a strung bow and closing his eyes to hear Geralt’s soft groan.

Geralt’s hand cups the shape of his hip, gripping and holding him in place as he rolls his hips slowly and deliberately against Jaskier. “I could take you like this, couldn’t I? I could take you, and you’d spread yourself wide for me.”

Jaskier moans, a wanton sound. “I would. I will. Do it.”

Geralt nuzzles the nape of Jaskier’s neck. “No, not here. In a real bed, where I can stretch you out and fuck you slowly. Not on the hard ground like this. You’re worth more than that to me.”

Jaskier turns onto his back to face Geralt, to look him in the eye. Geralt is flushed, lazy, with something close to a smile curving his stern mouth. Jaskier kisses him carefully, asking him a question in his kiss that is too subtle to be understood. Geralt rumbles a pleased noise and slips his thigh over Jaskier’s, pinning him, tugging his legs apart.

“Please, please,” Jaskier gasps as he pulls back a fraction of an inch, as far as Geralt will allow him, weaving his fingers into Geralt’s hair. “I know I should have said it before, but don’t do this unless you mean it. I couldn’t bear it.”

Geralt grunts, biting gently at Jaskier’s mouth, trailing two fingers down below his navel. “I meant it.”

“No, Geralt, I don’t mean like that,” he says, even as his pulse jumps and he shifts his hips up into the touch. “If you send me away tomorrow, or the next day...you won’t be able to unmake that choice. I’m not her.”

Geralt freezes, his fingertips resting on Jaskier’s belly. “I know who you are, and who you’re not. That’s why I tracked you and not her. I won’t deny I’m drawn to her, but of the two of you, you’re the one I can’t be without. I should never have been so blind as to think otherwise.”

Jaskier blinks. “Oh, well. That’s...that’s alright, then.”

“Hm.” Geralt flattens his hand on Jaskier’s stomach and slides it lower to skim across his thickening cock. “Can I have you now?”

Jaskier nods, leaning in to brush his lips against Geralt’s. “You can have whatever pleases you.”

“I already do,” Geralt says, kissing him heavy as a stone and soft as a garden, hidden away.


End file.
